First
by ImpishTubist
Summary: John will always come first for Lestrade.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing.

**Notes**: Originally posted on AO3 and LJ in December 2011.

**Warnings**: Minor Character Death.

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><p>The flat was dark and silent when Lestrade returned from the Yard that evening; not that he had been expecting anything less, of course, but when he entered he noticed a worn jacket hanging next to his raincoat on the hooks by the door, and a pair of shoes some sizes too small for him sitting neatly next to his trainers.<p>

John was here, then, which was unusual because Tuesdays weren't _their _nights. Tuesdays John spent with Sherlock, doing whatever it was the two of them got up to when there wasn't a case on. Wednesdays belonged to John and Lestrade, whenever they could both spare a moment from the work.

Lestrade shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, toed off his shoes, and then turned on the lights in the main part of the flat. He frowned. John wasn't in the living room, nor in the kitchen. He supposed it was entirely possible that John was in bed and asleep already, but it was still early.

He checked the bedroom anyway, but it was empty. Lestrade rubbed a hand across the back of his head, and was about to pull out his mobile when he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye.

"John?"

Lestrade walked over to the adjoining bathroom and peered inside. There was an unfamiliar shadow huddled in the corner, and he reached for the light switch.

"Leave the light off, please," John's voice said from the darkness. It sounded flat; dulled.

"All right." Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, considering whether he should go and leave John in peace. He felt already as though he were intruding upon the shell of privacy that John constructed around himself. There were many things they talked about; there were some they didn't, and it worked that way. Neither of them were good with words; actions always served them better.

But the silence was wrong; it wasn't the silence that had accompanied John after Sherlock landed himself in hospital with pneumonia or the one that hung heavily between them last summer, when Lestrade had suffered a gunshot wound to the leg and one far too close to the femoral artery for John's liking.

No, this silence was defeated; empty.

Lestrade crossed the small room and sank to his knees by John's side, facing him. He laid a hand on John's knee and whispered, "What's happened?"

He heard the soft smack of John's mouth opening, but no words emerged. He shut it, and Lestrade heard him drag his tongue across dry lips.

"Got a call this afternoon at the surgery. From home." John gave a huff of breath. "Never get a call from home during the day, and certainly not there. Should've known then."

"Your sister," Lestrade ventured. John's parents were older, but in good health still, much more so than their daughter. A parent's death is expected, especially to an ordered mind like John's. This - his lover huddled on the floor of the bathroom, unusually quiet - this was a sign of something unexpected.

"Yeah." John said finally. "She - uh - well, she started drinking again, but she hit it hard this time around. She went out, alone, got drunk, and wandered into traffic on the way home. Smart enough not to drive herself, thank God, but managed to get killed by a car just the same. Didn't stand a chance. She was dead before she hit the street."

"Oh, God." Lestrade moved to sit next to John, both of them with their backs pressed against the tub. They were fitted together in the confined space, shoulders to hips to knees, and Lestrade could feel even through the fabric of their clothing that John was cold. "Johnny, I'm so sorry."

John just shook his head. Lestrade slipped an arm around his waist and tugged him close, pulling until John acquiesced and sank against his side. Lestrade rubbed a hand over John's upper arm, trying to infuse some warmth into the smaller man, trying to figure out where to go from here.

First things first.

"Do you have your mobile on you?"

John's head turned toward him in the dark, perplexed, but he pulled the device out of his pocket and handed it over nonetheless. Lestrade opened it with one hand, saw that John had missed several calls and texts, and knew he had been right. He found the appropriate contact (listed under "Git" today) and dialed.

"Sherlock, it's Lestrade. Yeah, I've got him. He's -" Lestrade glanced at John, who shook his head. "No, he doesn't want to talk right now, but he's all right. Safe, at least. He'll be staying here tonight, so don't w - he did? All right, I'll tell him. Thanks. G'night, Sherlock."

Lestrade closed the mobile, set it to silent, and then said, "He...says he's sorry for your loss and he hopes that you'll tell him if there's any way he can assist in your healing process. His words, not mine."

John let out a huff of breath. "Sweet of him."

"He means it, John. He's concerned. You...just sort of left without saying anything to him."

"Yeah, I know he means it," John sighed. "I just - I just couldn't take his nervous attempts at comforting. You know what he's like. He did the same thing last year when your mum died - trying to make tea and go to the shops and all that rubbish, only he's awful at it and never knows what to buy, so he comes back with celery and beans and cans of cat food because he gets an idea for a wild experiment while he's out. And his tea's too damn weak anyway."

John pressed his face into Lestrade's shoulder. "I just wanted to see you. I'm sorry. I know you're busy -"

"Not too busy for you," Lestrade cut in firmly. "Never, Johnny."

John said nothing to that, and the awful silence returned. Lestrade knew that John wouldn't appreciate further platitudes, and they felt like ash on his tongue anyway. Empty sentiments and oft-used phrases - no, they would be of no use to John.

"What happens now?" Lestrade asked finally. John appreciated planning. He appreciated order, and lists, and protocol.

"I need to go identify the body," John murmured. "They found her with identification, but we still need to be sure. The body - her body's at Bart's. I need to do it soon, and then start planning the funeral. I don't want all of that resting on my parents' shoulders; they're torn up about it enough as it is."

"I'll go with you," Lestrade said promptly, and felt John tense.

"You've got the case, though," he said.

"I have a person I care very much about who is in pain," Lestrade said softly, and leaned over to press his lips to John's forehead. "No. I'm going with you, if you'll allow it. You come first, Johnny."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Definitely. Were you planning on going tonight or in the morning?"

"I hadn't -" John swallowed. "I hadn't thought much beyond the fact that I _have _to, to be honest."

"Would you rather put it off for a few hours and get some rest, or get it out of the way so that you know for sure it's her?" Lestrade asked instead. He knew what he would want, of course, but John should have the option of living in limbo for a while longer, if he found it comforting. A few more hours of peace, before a lifetime without his sister.

But here they were too much alike, and he felt John's spine straighten; steeling himself. "I didn't think of that. I'd - I'd like to know. I don't think I'll be able to sleep _not _knowing."

"All right." Lestrade cupped John's jaw, pressing his head into his shoulder and stroking his thumb across the stubbled skin. John sighed, and Lestrade felt his eyes flutter and then close. "We'll go. In a little bit."

"You're too kind sometimes, you know that?"

Lestrade ducked his head; pressed his lips to John's forehead. "I'll take a couple of days off; help you get the arrangements sorted."

"Sherlock'll have a fit," John muttered, and Lestrade gave a small shake of his head. Somehow, he didn't think Sherlock would truly mind. He might get in a snit about it, but Lestrade had come to realize that there were many things Sherlock was able to overlook where John was concerned.

"Come on," Lestrade said after a moment, disentangling himself from John and getting to his feet. He brushed his palms over his trousers and then held out a hand to John. "We should go."

"I hate her, I think," John said when he was standing, and in the darkness Lestrade couldn't make out his expression. His voice sounded more perplexed than bitter. "I shouldn't, but I do. A little bit, at least. Is that wrong of me?"

"I don't think any less of you for it," Lestrade answered. "And I don't think it'll last. She's your sister."

"Was," John corrected in a soft voice, and Lestrade reached out to brush light fingertips along his jaw.

"No, _is, _Johnny. She always will be." Lestrade reached for his hand, and John gave it gladly. "Let's go say goodbye."

And at that point all John could do was squeeze his hand, but Lestrade understood all the same.

_I don't understand why you would do this for me, but thank you._

Lestrade adjusted his grip, sliding his fingers between John's response as he tugged him gently out of the bathroom.

_Because this is your place, before anyone else's. You come first._

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><p>Final Notes: Part of the last line is paraphrased from Mary Reanult's <em>The Charioteer<em>.


End file.
